


Perfect Partners

by GloriaMundi



Series: Lucifer [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), The Prophecy (1995)
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, Crossover, Multi, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-02
Updated: 2003-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer conducts an experiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Partners

Boromir does not remember coming to this cavernous dark room with its smell of burnt feathers. He is lying on the bed, blinking the hunched figure of his companion into focus, and he does not like what he sees.

The man crouches at the end of the bed, leaning against the bedpost. His eyes glitter like sapphires, very blue in the gloom. His tongue swipes out to moisten his lips, very red against the dark beard.

"I see you're awake," he says. "Please, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lucifer. I am -- I was -- an angel."

Boromir's mouth is dry. "A what?" he croaks.

"Have a drink. There's water there." Lucifer points and Boromir sees a water-jug and an upturned glass on the table beside the bed. How did he fail to see it? He pours a glass of water and drinks it down. It tastes dusty.

"I've brought you here to conduct an experiment," says Lucifer. His voice is rich and low. His slicked-back hair catches the reflection of flames, though there is no fire in the room.

"What ... what experiment?" Boromir asks. He is naked, he realises, under a single coarse white sheet. The sheet makes him think of lying wounded after battle, but there is no wound clamouring at his awareness.

"A little knowledge is a dangerous thing," said Lucifer, "and your ignorance will prove the point much better."

Boromir sighs. There is something authoritative in Lucifer's voice, and just the slightest note of threat. He's naked: weaponless: without any memory of the last thing that he did. (Walking in the snow? Teaching a child to use a sword? Fleeing a monster in the darkness? These are just dreams.)

"What must I do?" he asks.

"There are clothes in the cupboard. Put them on."

Boromir pushes himself off the bed and stands, a little dizzy at first. His body feels strong. He opens the cupboard and draws out a scant handful of silk and ribbon. He is about to cast it aside when Lucifer says, "Yes. Put it on. It will fit."

"These are women's ... this is a whore's gear!" Boromir protests. Even in the dim room the colour is garish.

Lucifer snaps his fingers, once, twice, and candles leap to light in tall sconces around the bed.

The silk and ribbon and lace are garish indeed, but Lucifer's eyes are brighter, and their expression is deadly.

Boromir fumbles to dress himself. The fastenings are familiar to his fingers, and faintly, faintly, his mind shows him images of pretty girls laughing up at him. He runs out of clothing long before he feels dressed.

"There," he says defiantly, feeling himself blush. "Satisfied?"

"Never," says Lucifer, "but that's not the issue." He unfolds himself from the end of the bed and walks up to Boromir. Glides up to Boromir. Their eyes are level and Lucifer smiles as Boromir flinches from … from nothing, he tells himself.

"Now let me paint you," says Lucifer. "Stand still." He is wearing a long black coat, and he draws things from the pockets. "Don't struggle. Struggling is boring." his hand on Boromir's shoulder is warm and familiar.

Boromir submits. He glares at Lucifer, and Lucifer chuckles indulgently. There is a stick of black to outline his eyes; a pot of red which Lucifer's finger glides onto his lips; something that sparkles between Lucifer's palm and the curve of his eye socket.

"Angel dust," says Lucifer, smiling. It's not a nice smile. "Made from real angels."

Even without any idea of what an angel is, Boromir shivers.

"Lovely," declares Lucifer at last, standing back from his living canvas. "You know you wanted it."

"I -- No!"

"Ah well. I know you wanted it." Lucifer tilts his head. "Deliciously whorish. And now you play the part."

Boromir's horrified protest is so loud that it chokes him. He lunges forward, hands reaching for Lucifer's pale throat, but Lucifer's hands are like living metal and they cast him down.

Lucifer sighs from somewhere above him. "Learn to submit, Boromir. It will be over the sooner." Shadows race around the room as the candles flicker. "Get up, and sit on the bed."

Boromir feels something inside himself collapse. He is alone, unarmed, shamefully clad. He is about to ... about to be...

He gets up and sits on the bed.

* * *

Each man has Boromir's face.

Many of them are warriors. There is a soldier in green who is gentle, and takes him face to face with kisses and caresses until they are both crying out together in passion. He kisses Boromir again before he leaves, and looks back over his shoulder as he draws the curtain aside and disappears.

But then there's a fancily-dressed man in a curled wig, who grabs Boromir's hair spitefully and fucks his mouth as though avenging some mortal insult. Boromir chokes on his seed and wishes he had bitten. The red paint on his lips stains the man's cock like blood. He fastens his breeches and leaves without a word.

Some of them try to speak to him, but their words are strange, and Boromir doesn't know whether they are words of desire or savage obscenities. Some of them touch him with hands the size and shape of his own, caressing and teasing and stroking him to climax after climax. He does not tire: he does not ache: every penetration is as hard as the first. Her can't remember who was first.

Mostly they just bugger him, business-like, arranging him on hands and knees for maximum convenience. They come, they go: Lucifer snaps his fingers, and all is clean and dry and unstretched again.

Boromir is numb by the end of it, He has lost count of the men with his face. The very last was a pretty youth in old-fashioned clothes -- still recognisably himself, his younger self -- who had gone on and on until Boromir wanted to scream from boredom.

It takes him some time to realise that no one else has come in through the other door behind the other curtain. That Lucifer is watching him. That the young man's semen is drying stickily on his thighs.

Boromir leans against the bedpost, knees up against his chest, and he lowers his face to his knees so that Lucifer won't see the tears.

* * *

Lucifer strips off the whorish trappings and washes him clean. His hands are warm and gentle on Boromir's body, and Boromir is not in any pain. He doesn't stop crying.

"I have a theory that everyone is their own perfect partner," he murmurs, using a cloth to wipe the last grimy traces of cosmetic from around Boromir's eyes.

Boromir says nothing. He is not thinking. His mind focuses on the gentleness of Lucifer's hands.

"Perhaps there are other factors," says Lucifer. "Not nature but nurture. Not who you are, but what you make yourself."

He may as well be speaking in the foreign tongues of the Boromir-ghosts.

"But you are lovely," says Lucifer, drawing him down onto the stainless bed.

"Let me forget," Boromir says, over and over. He chants it like a mantra, even when Lucifer is deliciously deep inside him and Lucifer's tongue is stretching like a wet red rope to taste the tears that leak from Boromir's closed eyes. Even when Boromir's seed erupts into Lucifer's tongued hand, he is begging, "oh, please, please let me forget."

And Lucifer sighs, and kisses him to suck the memories out, and leaves him sleeping.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 60 minutes for the contrelamontre 'imperfect sex' challenge.  
> The 'various SB characters' (e.g. played by Sean Bean in movies and on TV) include, as far as I recall, Sharpe; Lovelace from _Clarissa_; and the pretty boy he played in _Caravaggio_.


End file.
